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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479630">I carry your heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shushu_yaoi_lj/pseuds/shushu_yaoi_lj'>shushu_yaoi_lj</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, a teeny tiny bit of angst, blink and you will miss it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shushu_yaoi_lj/pseuds/shushu_yaoi_lj</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I was dreaming of him again.<br/>Dark hair, grey eyes, deep voice, ridiculously beautiful.<br/>It happens almost every night. Since I turned eleven.<br/>I have no idea who he is or how my brain has managed to conjure him up from nothing. But I keep on dreaming about him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Snowbaz Around The World</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I carry your heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm starting the new year with some soft and smutty SnowBaz.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>I feel his cool hands on my arm, long fingers sliding down until they reach my wrist and slowly wrap around it.</p><p>A soft smile appears on his lips, as he turns towards me and tilts his head.</p><p>There’s some blood on his cheek, a cut just above his left eyebrow. His armour is glinting in the early morning light and his horse nudges his side, probably wanting something to eat.</p><p>“I found you,” he says, “before you left for the crusades.”</p><p>“You found me,” I repeat, stupidly, and then I lean in for another kiss.</p><p> </p><p>My alarm clock rings and I groan as I turn it off and then bury my face under the pillow. It’s too early and I went to bed late last night to finish an assignment for uni. I could sleep a little longer, just five more minutes.</p><p>Yes, five more minutes.</p><p>My phone starts beeping annoyingly and I swear under my breath.</p><p>“Simoooon!” Penny calls from her room, “don’t you dare turn that off and go back to sleep. It’s time to wake up!”</p><p>“Okay,” I mutter and rub my eyes, yawning.</p><p>I was dreaming of him again. </p><p>Dark hair, grey eyes, deep voice, ridiculously beautiful.</p><p>It happens almost every night. Since I turned eleven.</p><p>I have no idea who he is or how my brain has managed to conjure him up from nothing. But I keep on dreaming about him.</p><p>Sometimes his hair is longer, sometimes shorter. He wears all sorts of clothes. Posh expensive jackets, fancy flowery tops, puffy shirts that look like they’re out of a period drama, once a toga, occasionally military uniforms, this time an armour. </p><p>It makes me think of the different episodes of <em> Horrible Histories </em> I used to watch on YouTube to pass my GCSE History (in hindsight, I should have probably read more books…).</p><p>I finally get up and take a piss, then I have breakfast with Penny and get ready for university. Sometimes I wonder why I bother going, since I’m so crap at it, but Penny insists on me having a degree and I have a scholarship, so the show must go on.</p><p>"Do you believe in past lives?" I ask Penny as we're heading out, and she seems to study me before she replies.</p><p>"Like reincarnation?" she says and I nod.</p><p>"No, I don't. I'm not religious and I believe we only get one chance at life and that's it," she seems to mull things over and then she adds, "has this got to do with your weird dreams with the handsome bloke?" </p><p>"Yes," I admit, "maybe I am dreaming of past lives. Think about it, they all seem to be set in different places and times. The only constant is us. Baz and I."</p><p>"Or maybe it's just your brain telling you that you fancy men," she suggests and I shrug.</p><p>I just wish I could go back to bed and dream more about Baz.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>I’ve been on the island of Dejima for a couple of months when he arrives, all golden skin, freckles and moles. His ship is bringing sugar from the Netherlands, but according to rumours they also have craters full of scientific books and a few instruments the Japanese will absolutely love. </p><p>I could have left and gone back to Amsterdam when he arrived, but as soon as I saw him, I immediately decided to stay.</p><p>We’re sharing living quarters and he clearly hates me. We keep on arguing and bickering. He wants to leave the shutters open all the time and it’s freezing. He stuffs his face with food and complains that it tastes odd with his mouth wide open as he’s chewing.</p><p>I should find him disgusting and annoying. But I’m in love with him instead. </p><p>It feels like I’ve been waiting all my life to find him. He’s the best treasure I could take back home. If only he allowed me to take him.</p><p>He doesn’t seem interested in Japanese prostitutes and he spends his days pacing around, like a caged animal.</p><p>“How can you stand it?” he asks me, one lazy spring afternoon, the cherry blossom in our small garden making him look even more like a work of art. “I feel caged. We can’t leave this bloody island to go and explore.”</p><p>We’re sitting on the tatami mats in front of the open window. There’s a soft breeze that gently ruffles his curls. His eyes are so blue.</p><p>“There’s plenty of ways to make time go faster,” I say, moving closer, noticing the way his cheeks turn the loveliest shade of pink as his gaze locks with mine. I let my fingers slide over his, relishing the warmth that seeps through my skin. He licks his lips and blinks. </p><p>He lets me touch him.</p><p>“Like what?” he asks, his voice low, looking around, making sure that we’re completely alone and then moving closer.</p><p>“I can show you, if you want,” I reply, leaning into him, until our lips are just a couple of inches apart, “would you like me to?”</p><p>“Yes…” he whispers and then he finally breaks the distance between us.</p><p> </p><p>I wake up with a start, realising that I’ve fallen asleep at my desk again. There’s some drool on my notebook.</p><p>“Fuck,” I mutter, realising that my dream stopped just as I was about to kiss him.</p><p>Simon.</p><p>I’ve been dreaming about him for years, since I was eleven. Fiona says he’s a product of my gay brain and that I should go out more and get laid.</p><p>She’s probably right, but I can’t just shag the first bloke that I come across. Not when my dreams are filled with <em> him </em>.</p><p>I check the time and it’s 2:36 am. I’d better go to bed.</p><p>Who knows, if I’m lucky enough, I might still dream of him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>I make my way to my first lecture of the day and wish that I remembered my thermos with tea. It costs too much to buy it from a coffee shop and lunchtime is hours away.</p><p>“Hey, Simon,” Shepard says, getting off his bike, “how’re you doing, bro?”</p><p>“Fine, had another one of my odd dreams.”</p><p>“What was it this time?” he asks, his face lighting up. Shep loves a mystery and he’s fascinated by my weird nocturnal stories.</p><p>“It was different,” I explain, as we walk into the main building, “Baz was a vampire and I had wings! Can you believe that?”</p><p>“Whoa! What kind of wings? Like an angel?”</p><p>“No,” I think about my red wings from the dream, remembering the weight of them on my back, the leathery feeling on my fingers when I touched them, “more like dragon wings.”</p><p>“That’s so cool!”</p><p>It was weird. We were magical. Or at least, Baz and Penny were. I seemed to have lost all my magic for some reason that I can’t recall.</p><p>I was a complete disaster in that dream, more so than usual. I was not going to university, I had put on weight, spending my days drinking cheap cider on the sofa. And I was going to leave Baz. I remember the feeling of my heart shattering, little by little, until it was just a crater full of rubble. And Baz looking at me with those desperate grey eyes, telling me that he wouldn’t be happy anywhere without me. </p><p>I believe him now that I’m awake. I didn’t, back in the dream.</p><p>“Hey, are you alright?” Shep asks, his hand resting on my shoulder. I nod and take my notebook and a pen out of my bag.</p><p>“Just thinking,” I reply.</p><p>“About Baz?” he asks with a gentle smile.</p><p>“Yeah,” I say, scribbling his full posh name on the corner of a blank page, “about Baz.”</p><p>I wish he were real.</p><p>There’s nothing I want more than having him here with me. In real life and not just in a dream.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>“Will you stay still?” he asks again, losing his patience. </p><p>I love it when he looks all flustered, his cheeks flushed and his gaze suddenly so intense. I move on purpose, just to get more of his attention.</p><p>I love feeling his eyes on me as he paints me.</p><p>“Well, maybe if you hadn’t asked me to pose in such a ridiculously uncomfortable position, I would move less.”</p><p>He groans and I smirk. I like getting under his skin like this.</p><p>I’m sitting on a chair, in front of the window, a book in my lap and my legs crossed in an awkward position. He wanted my hair to fall in lazy waves around my cheeks. I loved the feeling of his fingers on my body as he moved me into position, his eyes fixed on me.</p><p>“You must have posed for a hundred portraits. You should be used to it by now,” he says, looking at his palette and mixing up some blue and grey. Is he colouring my eyes?</p><p>“No one is like you,” I reply and his blue eyes meet mine.</p><p>“What do you mean? I’m not even that famous. Your father said you requested me, but I’m still trying to understand why, since you seem to hate me.”</p><p>I open my mouth and gape at him. I wasn’t expecting him to be so brutally honest.</p><p>“I…” I try to gather some courage, “I don’t hate you.”</p><p>“Mhhh,” he murmurs, going back to his canvas, frowning as his brush caresses the white surface. I wish he would touch me like that. He looks enamoured with his art. “You’re supposed to look at your book, not at me.”</p><p>Touché, I think.</p><p>I lower my gaze to the book in my lap, wishing that I could continue studying him instead. The portrait will be done soon. It’s the second one I commission him and I don’t know what kind of excuse I can come up with to make him stay longer. I’m contemplating making him repaint the whole family chapel, which would take at least a few months, when he suddenly interrupts my plotting.</p><p>“So you don’t hate me?” he asks, wiping his colourful fingers on a rag.</p><p>“Quite the contrary,” I confess, observing his eyes open wide and a blush colouring his cheeks. He’s so beautiful. I should be the one painting him.</p><p>“What are you reading, anyway?” he asks, trying to change the topic.</p><p>“Dante’s Divine Comedy. Inferno, fifth canto,” I reply. He shakes his head.</p><p>“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never read it.”</p><p>“It’s one of my favourite sections. Dante’s travelling through the underworld with Virgil and they reach the second circle of hell where the lustful get punished,” I explain and he stops painting, listening to me instead.</p><p>“What’s their punishment?” he asks, tilting his head.</p><p>“They are swept away by an infernal storm, for eternity,” I can see that he’s curious and wants to know more, so I turn towards him and this time he doesn’t tell me off. “Dante meets a beautiful woman called Francesca, who tells him how she fell in love with Paolo, her husband’s brother.”</p><p>“That sounds like a bad idea,” he murmurs.</p><p>“They just couldn’t help it. They were reading together about Lancelot and Guinevere and they fell in love. Unfortunately, they were discovered by Francesca’s husband, who killed them both. It’s my favourite part of the Divine Comedy.”</p><p>“Oh…ca-can you read that for me?” he asks, and then blushes and adds, “please.”</p><p>I nod and open my book, then I look back at him. I know this section by heart anyway, so I look him straight in the eyes. </p><p>“<em> Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende </em>,” I start and then I translate the verse for him, “Love, which in the gentle heart is quickly born.”</p><p>He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck, as his eyes lock with mine.</p><p>“<em> Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,  </em></p><p>
  <em> mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,  </em>
</p><p><em> che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona </em>.”</p><p>“What does that mean?” he whispers, putting his brush down on the easel and stepping closer.</p><p>“It means that love exempts no one beloved from loving,” I reply, letting the book fall on the chair and standing up, moving towards him, “that Francesca fell in love with Paolo and even if it was wrong and it brought their death, she still couldn’t stop that feeling from leaving her heart and reaching his. Because if someone loves you like that, you have no alternative but to love them back.”</p><p>“Do you believe that?” he asks, his eyes locking with mine, his fingers trembling as they reach for me. I grab them and he’s so warm that I whimper. </p><p>“Yes,” I murmur, my hands daring to touch his waist, bringing him closer, “I wish that the love that is burning me with such force could make love blossom in my beloved’s heart. In your heart.”   </p><p>“It’s too late for that,” he says, “there’s already a fire in my heart. And it’s all your fault.”</p><p>I sigh as my fingers gently stroke his back, feeling him shudder through the thin fabric of his shirt. He gently cups my cheek and his forehead rests against mine.</p><p>“This is wrong,” he whispers, “if we get caught…”</p><p>“<em> Amor condusse noi ad una morte </em>,” I finish the verse, “love brought us to a single death.”</p><p>His eyes close and he takes a deep breath.</p><p>“I’m willing to risk it,” I whisper, “I would risk everything for you.”</p><p>His lips brush against mine and then he’s all over me, his fingers in my hair, his mouth colliding with mine in the most delicious way, his tongue in my mouth and his body pressed against me.</p><p>“Simon,” I whisper between kisses, “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>I wake up when my alarm rings and I swear I can still feel his warm body against mine, the taste of his lips and the soft noises he was making as he was kissing me as if the world were about to end.</p><p>Sometimes the dreams stop abruptly, sometimes they continue in another dream, like a story that my brain needs to play out for me. I really hope I get to see how this one ends. At least we got to kiss.</p><p>Some of the dreams don’t end that well. We got killed in a few of them. The other day I had the weirdest nightmare of being a vampire and Simon wanting to leave me. </p><p>I get up and take a long shower, enjoying the feeling of the hot water over my skin, remembering that dream in which we had sex in a fancy bathtub with golden claw feet. I close my eyes, take my cock into my hand and start stroking it.</p><p>I think about the feeling of his mouth around my length, so warm and deliciously wet. I remember the little moans that escaped his mouth when I fucked him in a hundred dreams, of the tight heat around me. I can almost feel him inside me, so hot and hard, so deep. I whimper and let out a soft gasp, resting my head against the warm tiles as I come with a shudder, his name on my lips.</p><p>Simon.</p><p>I wish I could go back to bed, but I have an exam today.</p><p>When I get to the university campus, Niall and Dev greet me with a grin.</p><p>“There’s a party tonight,” Dev says, showing me a bright pink flyer, “we’re going to get sloshed.”</p><p>“Don’t count me in,” I reply, shaking my head.</p><p>“Come on, Baz!” Niall says, “it’s Friday and your last exam is today. You have to get out sometimes.” </p><p>“I have to study,” I reply. I refuse to attend these godforsaken bacchanals, where all people do is get drunk and puke all over the carpet.</p><p>“How are you supposed to have fun, if you spend all your evenings stuck in your flat in front of a book?” my cousin asks, trying to arch an eyebrow at me and settling for both. He’s never learnt the family trick. He’s a Grimm anyway. “You’ll die a virgin, at this rate.”</p><p>I raise an eyebrow (I feel the need to show him how it’s done correctly) and then roll my eyes.</p><p>“Come on, Baz. Start living. You’ve never even fallen in love,” Niall says, gently, and I feel a lump in my throat.</p><p>Because he doesn’t know, but I have.</p><p>Every single night.</p><p>I’ve fallen in love hundreds of times. </p><p>Always with him.</p><p>Only with him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>The night sky is illuminated by the fire and the sound of the artillery fills my ears with dread. I cover my face when a loud <em> boom </em> shakes the earth underneath me. I’m on the ground, covered in mud and someone else’s blood (or maybe it’s my own; I’m not sure anymore). My rifle’s broken and I’m unarmed. I think there’s something wrong with my ankle, because I can’t put any weight on it. </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>I realise with a sense of pure panic that I’m going to die tonight. Here, on my own, with no one to even witness it.</p><p>I’m going to die.</p><p>I thought the war was going to end. We got the news that Hitler was dead. It’s already May and everyone said we were going to stop fighting. We’ve spent so long in these bloody trenches, that I can’t even remember the colour of my own skin, without the dirt and the mud covering it.</p><p>But here I am, in the middle of no man’s land, as the Germans launch a last-minute attack that will probably kill me. </p><p>I crawl until I find something in the ground. A trapdoor. Maybe it's some kind of underground bunker.</p><p>I look around and no one seems to notice me, so I open it and put my foot on the first step, nearly falling down the stairs. I end up at the bottom, in the dark, clutching my leg. I think I might have sprained my ankle. It hurts so fucking much that it might be broken.</p><p>I heard another soldier yesterday saying that there used to be a church around here; maybe I’ve ended up in some kind of cellar.</p><p>I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I could lie low here, for a few hours, wait for dawn and then try to return to my trench. </p><p>God, I’m so hungry.</p><p>I’m about to get up and search for something edible, when the trapdoor opens and a soldier comes down the stairs. I look up at him and can’t believe my bad luck.</p><p>He’s German.</p><p>In spite of the dirt on his face, I can tell that he’s extremely good-looking, with grey eyes and dark wavy hair. It’s all caked in mud, but it still looks soft, somehow. </p><p>He stares at me and then, after what feels like ages, he takes his rifle off his shoulders and puts it on the ground. </p><p>And then he sits next to me.</p><p>I hold my breath, thinking that maybe he wants to kill me with his bare hands, when he turns and his eyes meet mine.</p><p>“Bist du Englisch?” he asks.</p><p>“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak German,” I reply, wondering how on earth I always end up in these weird situations.</p><p>“Hast du eine Zigarette?” he asks and I stare at him, but then he mimics smoking with his joint fingers over his pouty lips and I open my mouth.</p><p>“No, sorry! I’ve run out,” I reply and then add, “nein!”</p><p>It’s one of the few words I know in German.</p><p>We sit in silence for a while and then I notice his fingers trembling, his whole body shaken by shivers.</p><p>“Are you cold?” I ask and he just looks at me, so I take my coat off and give it to him. “I run hot anyway. It’s quite stuffy in here.”</p><p>He takes it and looks at me with a bewildered expression on his beautiful face. I don’t even know why I did that. But we’ve been sitting here together for a while and he doesn’t seem to want to kill me. He might be plotting, but I reckon he’s just a poor devil like me. Waiting for a ceasefire. </p><p>Maybe we’re both going to die here tonight.</p><p>But at least I won’t be alone.</p><p>He shares his water and a piece of chocolate with me and I somehow feel better.</p><p>I look at his fingers and they’re still shaking, so I try not to think about it and just grab them.</p><p>I hold his hand and he squeezes back.</p><p>His fingers interlace with mine and we finally look at each other.</p><p>“Du bist so schön,” he whispers, his eyes going soft as he looks at me, a smile blossoming on his face. I swallow loudly and lean closer.</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, “or what you’re smiling about. We’re both probably going to end up dead by dawn.”</p><p>He still looks at me, tilting his head, and I close my eyes, resting my head against the wall. </p><p>He starts whispering things to me, obscure words that sound like a confession. And I always thought that German sounded like a harsh language, but not on his tongue. Not when he’s whispering things in my ear, making me blush and cling to his fingers.</p><p>We hold hands for what feels like a lifetime, the minutes stretching into hours, until a faint light starts filtering from the trapdoor.</p><p>It’s dawn.</p><p>He’s resting his head on my shoulder when we hear voices shouting above us.</p><p>“C’est fini! La guerre est finie!”</p><p>I don’t speak French and I have no idea what they’re saying, but his eyes open wide and he sits up, his lips parting. More voices start shouting and cheering outside and a smile spreads on his beautiful lips.</p><p>“What are they saying?” I ask, squeezing his hand, “do you understand?”</p><p>“Das Ende des Krieges,” he mutters and then he says it slowly, one more time, his eyes locked with mine.</p><p>And I don’t speak a word of German, but somehow it clicks.</p><p>Das Ende. </p><p>The end.</p><p>The end of the war.</p><p>“The war is over?” I ask, in disbelief, and he nods, smiling, and I start laughing. I wrap my hands around his neck, bringing him closer, feeling his face in the crook of my neck. His smile on my skin.</p><p>Maybe we won’t die tonight.</p><p>We’re alive.</p><p>We’re together.</p><p> </p><p>I wake up with tears in my eyes and a stupid grin on my lips. I feel relief flooding through my veins. I feel grateful to be alive. </p><p>I get up and run to the kitchen, where Shep is having breakfast, his glasses perched precariously on his nose as he yawns. </p><p>“Morning, Simon,” he mutters and I just hug him. I’m crap at it, but I feel the sudden need to do it and he yelps, but then I feel his arms around my back, holding me tight. “Aren’t you full of beans today?”</p><p>“Hey, where’s my hug?” asks Penny, entering the kitchen and I give her one too.</p><p>They’re used to my funny moods. They know about my dreams and that they can leave me in various states of happiness or despair. </p><p>Today I feel so full of life.</p><p>“How’s the research for the perfect poem for your evening class going?” Penny asks later, getting her umbrella before we leave our flat. I didn’t even know it was going to rain today. Oh well, I have a hoodie.</p><p>“No luck,” I reply, “I’m still searching. I might go to the library this afternoon and have a look.”</p><p>She somehow managed to convince me to sign up for an English literature class. It’s an optional course and I have a feeling I will be shit at it, but she said it might be nice to read some new books.</p><p>We’re supposed to choose a poem that is meaningful to us for the first class and I have absolutely zero clue what to bring. I don’t even think I’ve ever read a poem before.</p><p>“Do songs count?” I ask, scratching the back of my head.</p><p>“I don’t think so,” she replies and Shep argues that they should. They start discussing as we get on the tube and end up snogging by the time we get to our stop.</p><p>Another long day ahead.</p><p>I wonder what I’ll dream of tonight.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>He stirs in his sleep and mumbles something under his breath, turning. He’s lying on his back now, in all his naked glory, his soft member resting between his legs. My fingers are cold, but I still run them gingerly over his chest, my pads tracing the pattern of scars, then moving down to his belly and his groin. He lets out a little soft moan as I gently stroke his dick and I smile. </p><p>I’ve been staring at his sleeping form for at least an hour. I’ll never get tired of it.</p><p>Buckle moves at the foot of the bed and peeks at me from his cushion. I hope he’s not going to bark.</p><p>“Go back to sleep,” I whisper and he seems to decide that if his owner is still asleep, then there’s no point in being awake. “Good boy.”  </p><p>Simon and I made love for hours yesterday evening, taking turns to take each other, to taste and lick and sink into each other’s heat. I took my time, lazily kissing and exploring his body, making him moan and whimper under my fingers and lips.</p><p>I fucked him in front of my giant mirror, making him blush as he looked at my cock sliding in and out him, slowly, as I whispered obscenities into his ear.</p><p>It was our first night at Pitch Manor. The first time he finally agreed to leave his gamekeeper’s cottage in my woods to enter my home. To live with me.</p><p>“Good morning, darling,” he whispers, his eyelids fluttering open and a smile spreading on his freckled face, “have you been staring at me again?”</p><p>“It’s not my fault if you’re so beautiful,” I reply with a smirk and he kisses it off my lips. I love him so much, morning breath and all. </p><p>“Breakfast?” I ask, wrapping myself around his warmth, my head on his chest. I trace his scars with my fingertips and he lets me touch them, breathing slowly as I skim over freckles and moles, scar tissue and healthy skin.</p><p>“I love you,” he whispers, his voice brimming with feelings, threatening to overflow, “I love you so much.”</p><p>“I love you too,” I answer.</p><p> </p><p>I open my eyes and it’s still dark outside. I want to drift back to sleep. To feel him close to me, so warm and delicious, so sweet.</p><p>I close my eyes, breathing in, his smell still lingering just under my nose. I chase the feeling of his warm skin against mine, of his gentle fingers sliding through my hair and his voice in my ear. </p><p>I can almost feel him, taste him.</p><p>I miss him so much. I would give everything to meet him, to have him in my life.</p><p>Sometimes I wish I still lived with Fiona. At least I would have someone to talk to in the morning, when I wake up feeling desperately lonely and like I’m missing a limb or a vital organ.</p><p>I feel restless and empty as I get ready for university, walking to the tube station and then making my way through the crowd of angry commuters.</p><p>My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check and it’s a reminder.</p><p>Niall and I signed up for an English literature class. It starts tomorrow and I need to remember to print out a copy of my favourite poem.</p><p>The one that reminds me of him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>“I want you,” he whispers, his fingers still inside me, my lips colliding with his, in a desperate kiss that leaves us both breathless. I moan into his mouth as he fucks me with his long fingers, stretching me until I’m ready for him.</p><p>My hand closes around his cock and I start pumping it slowly, dragging his foreskin over the head, twisting my wrist in a way that makes him gasp.</p><p>“Simon,” he says, “please.”</p><p>His fingers slide out and I climb on top of him, guiding his cock towards my entrance. His hands are on my hips, his eyes look desperately hungry as they glide over my flushed cheeks, down my chest, towards my hard ruddy dick.</p><p>I sink down, letting out a low moan as he fills me with his cock. God, he’s so hard and I take him all in, down to the hilt. </p><p>I feel so full. </p><p>We both groan and then I start moving, slowly, letting his cock slide in and out, over and over, picking up a pace.</p><p>He looks so gorgeous in the dim light of the afternoon. It’s raining outside and I lose myself in the soft noises of his gasps, his tiny moans and the <em> pitter-patter </em> of the rain on the roof. His bell bottom trousers and flowery shirt lie discarded on the floor. His cheeks are pink and mouth open, stormy grey eyes looking at me with so much love.</p><p>I feel his fingers sliding down my backside, spreading my cheeks and touching my rim. I moan loudly as he pushes deeper inside me, stroking my cock and skimming over my entrance as he fucks me harder. And suddenly it’s all too much and I come with a loud gasp, painting my belly and his fingers with white thick come.</p><p>He watches me as I let the pleasure shake me to the core, shuddering through my orgasm.</p><p>“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers and then he comes, deep inside me, my name on his lips.</p><p>We lie in bed naked afterwards, his fingers in my curls, gently stroking them. </p><p>There’s a book on his bedside table and I grab it.</p><p>“What are you reading?” I ask, checking the cover.</p><p>“It’s a collection of poems by E. E. Cummings,” he says and then he gently takes the tome from my hands and opens it where he left his bookmark, “shall I read you my favourite?”</p><p>“Yes,” I reply, smiling at him.</p><p>“It reminds me of you,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>I wake up and jump out of bed, tripping on my clothes as I reach my desk and find a pen and a piece of paper. I scribble the name he said.</p><p>
  <em>E.E. Cummings. </em>
</p><p>I have a very vague memory of the poem he read to me, but I have a feeling that it’s the one. It’s the poem I need for my class.</p><p>I go to my lectures in the morning and then eat lunch on my own at the canteen. In the afternoon I finally find the time to go to the library. I look in the poetry section and read most of Cummings’s poems until I finally find it.</p><p>The one he read to me. His favourite.</p><p>It’s mine too now. Because it reminds me of him. Of us.</p><p>I make a copy and head to my literature class, my heart in my throat. I have a strange feeling that something important is going to happen. Something that will change my pitiful existence. </p><p>I hold the copy of my poem in front of me, reading it one more time.</p><p>I’m so nervous and distracted that I walk into someone.</p><p>“Ouch,” I say, my nose bashing against his neck. I drop my poem and we both kneel down to grab it at the same time. My fingers touch his and I feel like a current going through me. Like a hook pulling at my navel, dragging me towards him.</p><p>I look up and my eyes open wide.</p><p>He’s staring at me, his grey eyes so beautiful and deep.</p><p>He’s here. </p><p>I’ve called him in a dozen different ways in my dreams.</p><p>Tyrannus, Basilton, Mr Pitch, posh twat, Lord Basilton, Sir.</p><p>But this time I know immediately how to call him.</p><p>“Baz?” I whisper, my lips trembling as his lovely name escapes in a gasp.</p><p>“Simon…” he sobs, a tear falling down his cheek as a smile spreads on my face. “I…I thought you weren’t real. I’ve spent years looking for you.”</p><p>“Baz…” I say, taking his hand, lacing our fingers together. I have no words left in me, but my heart is threatening to explode. All I can say is his name, over and over again.</p><p>We’re still kneeling on the floor, holding hands, when someone approaches us.</p><p>“Baz, are you coming?” someone says from behind him and he doesn’t even turn to look at them, his gaze still locked with mine, refusing to leave me.</p><p>“No,” he replies, his forehead resting against mine, “I’m taking Simon home. We have a lot of catching up to do.”</p><p>I chuckle and my lips finally meet his and he lets me kiss him, his fingers cupping my cheek, sliding through my hair and tugging at them gently.</p><p>“I’m never letting you go,” I whisper against his lips.</p><p>“Let me take you home,” he says. </p><p>We both stand up and I notice my poem on the floor. Right next to his.</p><p>I take both sheets of paper in my trembling hands and they’re the same poem.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I smile as I look at him.</p><p>They match.</p><p>We match.</p><p>  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In case anyone was wondering, Baz’s last dream is linked to my fic <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408136/chapters/66989425"> Broken </a> (because I simply had to write about them one more time).<br/>You can find the beautiful poem by E.E. Cummings <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49493/i-carry-your-heart-with-mei-carry-it-in"> here</a> .<br/>Kudos and comments make me a happy bunny.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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